Stop This
by bondageluvr
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John is trying to cope with the death of the most beautiful human being to ever touch his life. By finishing what Sherlock started. Too bad Sherlock is out there doing the exact same thing. JohnXSherlock
1. Chapter 1  Fuego Contra Fuego

**Author's Notes: **Welcome all to my first ever Sherlock fanfic. I am sorry to say I only got into the series exactly a day after the final episode of season 2 had aired and I was completely and utterly devastated when they told me I had to wait another year to find out what really happened. Well, thank God for fanfiction.

Yes, this will be slash. Don't like, don't read. Simple as that or I will set Moriarty after you. And you should see him in a crown.

Anyway, reviews are much appreciated, as always.

**STOP THIS CHAPTER 1 - FUEGO CONTRA FUEGO**

_Monday. Time elapsed: 5 months. 2 weeks. 3 days. 14 hours. 48 minutes. _

_It feels like I haven't been awake for ages now. Exactly how long I cannot say, but that automated counter on top of this post will tell you. Whatever span of time had passed, it seems like I am stuck. I cannot call this a nightmare. This is life, that much I know. My therapist has spent enough time trying to convince me this is the reality, so I might as well give her the benefit of my belief. _

_Lestrade phoned yesterday. He had to call the landline since my mobile phone has become unreachable - a side-effect of a collision with the wall - the one with the smiley face. I refused to pick up so Mrs. Hudson barged in a few minutes later telling me the good detective inspector wanted to take me out for coffee. I know he really doesn't want to see me - not only because of the guilt but because I've made it quite clear I don't want him in my house. Ever. I hate coffee, anyway. It reminds me too much of languid mornings we used to spend together - me, reading recent headlines in an attempt to fish out interesting cases and him sipping on the toughest, thickest coffee I had ever seen anyone drink. The sludge would always be so viscous, it would take both me an Mrs. Hudson several turns to scrape it off the mug. The problem with Sherlock was always that he didn't have a favorite mug - so he used all we had one by one. Used to drive me insane. Now I long to wake up to the smell of the mud-cake coffee and the chore to wash out the china. _

_I keep thinking of an excuse to find my phone and try to switch it on. Maybe it will work. Maybe it can still be fixed. Like me. At this point, Sherlock would have said something along the lines of, "oh, how boringly mundane you are, John, with your silly literary romantics". It is true, isn't it? Death has turned me into a romantic. A hopeless one._

_Sarah passed along a note via Mrs. Hudson a few days ago. Says I lost my job. Funny how it could be the only thing to stave off my boredom but I just don't want it. I have enough money to pay the rent for the next century - Sherlock did have some amazing benefactors backing his cases up and I, apparently, am his next of kin. Not Mycroft. Me. He named me as the closest person in the world he could have. That is an almost direct quote. _

_Shower. Now that's a good idea. I don't think I've taken one in at least a week. _

_John Watson._

**STOP THIS**

Swinging his tired legs over the edge of the bed, John sat up warily, eyeing the opposite wall through tired eyes. The room still felt very foreign to him, even though it had been months since he had started sleeping there. The periodic table of elements stared back at him, zinc and calcium illuminated in the pale light of the morning. There was no sun, there never was nowadays, not in this room. John kept all the drapes tightly shut, just like Sherlock had liked it once. He had no need for the outside illumination anyway, as the only thing that provided incandescence here was the screen of his laptop, which had taken up a permanent residence on the bedside table and, more often than not, under the second pillow to his left, and frankly, the flickers of the LCD screen were all John needed.

Sherlock's bedroom had become a shelter of sorts, one could suppose, as John now spent a substantial amount of time there, writing away on his blog, posting like mad. The number of reads had not diminished after Sherlock's ... departure, instead, John felt a tiny bit better when he saw the hundreds of comments and likes aimed at his support. It seemed some people still believed in the great detective, as condolence letters and e-mails poured in, leaving John a bit breathless. He felt a little selfishly satisfied when he received each one because he knew Sherlock would not have cared about a single person behind those letters. Sherlock only would have cared for _John's_ scriptures, biting out acidic commentary to his choice of title and rolling his eyes at the frequent cliché and tautology he allowed himself on the blog.

"John! Someone here to see you, dear!" Mrs. Hudson hollered from downstairs, making John raise up one eyebrow in a feeble imitation of how _he _would have done had he been... here. Nobody ever came to see him anymore, even the once-loyal Lestrade had limited himself to phone calls after a particularly nasty incident involving his carelessness with what he said about Sherlock, John's fist and his nose. As a doctor, John knew exactly how long it would take for Lestrade to stop breathing through his mouth.

A series of exact footsteps were heard as his visitor made his way up the stairs. John knew it was a he taking into account the weight put into each setting down of the feet and the rhythm, which seemed more like an anthem than the tittering mambo Mrs. Hudson's feet usually made. The steps stopped right in front of his door and before the visitor could know, John urged quietly:

"Come in, Mycroft." The door creaked open and indeed, there stood Mycroft Holmes, his suit impeccable as ever, hair slicked back unfashionably yet sensibly for him, a long black umbrella hooked over his forearm. He looked more tired than ever, frown lines and dark circles setting in around and under his eyes despite his regular spa treatments. The death of his brother was taking its toll on him, although to a lesser extent than John might have hoped for. It was Mycroft's fault, he kept reminding himself. _More or less. _

"Good afternoon, doctor Watson, or should I say morning?" A fake smile creeped its way into the lines of his middle-aged face. John refused to be affected by the synthetic charm and simply nodded, finding himself hoping that such an acknowledgement would be enough for the elder... _only _Holmes brother to disperse. "How did you know it was me coming up the stairs?"

"Obviously, by the sound of your umbrella scraping the wainscoting and the rhythm of your walk, you have a very particular one that-," John cut himself off, suddenly horrified. How _did _he know it had been Mycroft? Did he really realize that from he sound-, _yes. Yes, he had know because he had observed Mycroft do it before. Observed. _

"Terrifying, isn't it?" Mycroft asked pleasantly, giving John a once-over. "Turning into him. Your reclusive way of life seems to have affected your judgement."

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" John asked wearily, hoping a question would drive the annoying man away. Questions were usually asked _by _the CIA/MI5/whatever else employee, not the other way around.

"I was in the neighborhood."

"You expect me to believe that."

"No. But it is the only answer you will get for now so I suggest, my dear doctor, that you sit down and listen to what I have to say." Mycroft shifted in his seat uncomfortably and propped his chin up on the umbrella handle, heaving a sigh. "I came here to apologize to you."

"We both know it is not me you should be apologizing to." _Liar, swine, deceiver, betraying sack of-,_

"I know."

"Well then you also know where his grave is. I imagine you have at least five surveillance cameras stationed in the graveyard. Although, I don't believe you have visited him." John turned his face away, refusing to look the other man in the eye. "And don't say 'you should know'. I realize it isn't healthy, me doing what I do but it's the only thing I know besides of how to treat wounds and chase your younger brother all across London."

"Have I said anything? I think what you do is very... kind."

"Not a good thing in your books, though, is it, Mycroft Holmes?"

"_My _books have no say in the matter, dear doctor."

"Please, do get to the point, I have somewhere to be. And so, I should think, do you, although judging by the state of the country, you seem to be slacking off, Mr. Holmes." John nearly winced as he said the words. Too cold, to precise, to eloquent. He really was turning into Sherlock. A horrible, Chinese-copied version of him, but it seemed as though his body had found a defense mechanism for his grief. Consume every memory of Sherlock, become him. Maybe then he could pretend he was still here, still talking, still deducing, still _breathing. _

"There is not point to this conversation, doctor. I simply came here to see how you were doing. How _are _you doing?" Mycroft leaned forward, studying John closely, as one would a small interesting insect from Africa.

"How do you think, Mycroft? My best friend is dead, I lost my job, Mrs. Hudson is too scared of getting caught in one of my outbursts to ever come inside when I'm home - which is always, by the way, - my sister stopped calling because I wouldn't stop crying whenever she did and writing a blog, the only thing that used to keep me sane, has turned into a chore because there is nothing to write _about_. I have no life, Mycroft. But you knew all that before, didn't you? You just wanted me to admit I miss him just as much as you do just so you wouldn't have to feel guilty alone, well you know what, Mycroft Holmes? I believe you deserve every sleepless night, every constriction of your throat, every memory that makes you just this more insane. You deserve every second of suffering," John said, his voice and face impassive. Cold. So cold.

As there was nothing more to be said, Mycroft sniffed, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his expensive jacket, and left a breathless John behind, with nothing more for company than his memories.

**STOP THIS**

"Hello, Sherlock," John greeted his best friend, stooping down to press a kiss to the black marble. "How was the night? A bit cold, I imagine, with only your stone to cover you. Here, I brought you something to warm up." He paused, brandishing a thermos of earl gray tea and getting out two collapsible army cups from his jacket pocket. Pouring two cups, he kneeled onto the ground, ignoring the steady sting of the cold earth on his legs. "Here, just bought some fresh tea leaves yesterday on my way home from you. Cost me a fifth of my army pension but well, what is life if cannot enjoy a cuppa?"

The gravestone remained motionless and John sat resolutely on the ground, sipping at the piping hot liquid from his cup. The leaves rustled by, reminding John of last year, when he and Sherlock chased some murderer around the city - a blur of taxis and interviewed people, usually insulted by Sherlock, the dinners at Angelo's and the evenings spent at 221b Baker Street with John writing down their adventures and Sherlock conducting some hazardous experiments in the kitchen. Such normal things to him that now the normal that he had known before seemed foreign. They all said Sherlock was not right in the head but now John, ordinary, mousy John, was able to safely say he himself was a bit cuckoo as well.

"Your brother came by today, by the way. Haven't seen him since... your departure. Strange, how concerned he suddenly was with my well-being considering he didn't even attend your... send-off." Knocking back the rest of the scalding tea, John eyed the cup he had out onto the stone:

"Are you going to finish that? Probably not because Sherlock Holmes never gets cold like normal people do, what with you stupid long coat and expensive woolen pants." John smiled fondly, settling into the steadily cooling grass. "You know what's funny, though? After you left, nobody came to me to give that coat of yours back. I thought they would pack all the clothes up in a box to go with the other box... the wooden one, where they would place the rest of you. I guess your coat is still somewhere at Scotland Yard, being prodded and taken apart as evidence in the Moriarty case. Or maybe they buried you in your coat. It would have been fitting."

"It's a pity, actually, that you left in a closed box. I would have loved to say goodbye," John said, trying to keep his tone light as he felt his throat close up. Before the tear that was threatening to fall could make it down his eyelashes, he wiped his eyes, irritated. "You do funny things to people, do you know that, Sherlock? I was in the army, saw people die left and right but never cried. You got me blubbering like some sentimental buffoon. You made Mycroft feel sorry. You made Lestrade more cautious. You made Mrs. Hudson sad. I don't like it. She doesn't deserve sadness. She's a nice lady, even though she used to irritate you and I with h-her c-constant c-comments ab-bout us b-being t-togeth-,"

Unable to go on, John sobbed into his open palms, begging for the pain to go away. It never did.

"Sh-Sherlock, I know you might n-not would have w-wanted to hear this but... Um," John paused, his chest heaving, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. It didn't feel right. "Never you mind. Just me being silly. Silly John, the sidekick, wasn't it?" He let out a hysterical laugh and looked away from his friend, trying to gather his thoughts back into his tired brain. "Listen, I'll be back tomorrow. There's something I need to think about, Sherlock. You-you just stay h-here, okay? D-don't go anywhere? Oh God."

Once again, his chest tightened and new tears spilled from his eyes, making him stumble over the last words he said every day when he came to the cemetery to talk to his best friend. The same words, every day. The same tears, every day:

"Stop this. Don't be dead."

**STOP THIS**

It took Sherlock two hours of sitting in the cold graveyard on top of some poor devil's tombstone to figure out what had transpired in front of him. It seemed simple enough - a grieving John Watson arrived, pretending to talk to a still breathing Sherlock, pouring himself tea and berating Mycroft. His analytical brain whirring into action, two hours later, he had finally found the solution to the question: what was John doing? Not just now, but in general. What had he made of himself after Sherlock's 'death'?

Nothing.

John Watson was living _his _life now. Alone, friendless, driving people away, sociopathic, drinking.

He hated it.

**END OF CHAPER 1**

**End Notes: **Just for fun, I would like to start a 'question of the day' theme to this. So,

**Who do you think would be perfect to play Sherlock and Mycroft's father?**

Also, the title of the chapter is the name of a very beautiful song by Ricky Martin - "Fuego Contra Fuego". Have a listen even if you have no idea what he's saying in Spanish. :)

Ta!


	2. Chapter 2 Shine a Light

**Author's Notes: **Wow. Just wow. Thank you for the amazing reviews I got on the last (well, first, actually) chapter. Sorry I haven't updated, life got in the way, MacBook kept crashing, iPad kept glitching. Honestly, Apple seems to hate Sherlock Holmes more than Moriarty does.

**Question answer: **I am inclined to think Lee would have done a marvelous job as the Holmes boys' father but whenever I look at Benedict, I think _Alan Rickman_.

Speaking of which (not really), it would delight me immensely if you were to follow me on tumblr: /queersandlipstick . I recently created a seried of Sherlock-themed 'Keep Calm' posters (for all us Cumberbitches). Cheerio!

**STOP THIS CHAPTER 2 - SHINE A LIGHT**

With a sigh, John lowered the now half-empty cup of tea onto the coaster, watching the liquid slosh around thickly. He had attempted to make Sherlock-style brew once more but had failed - it still wasn't as viscous and as sickening as it was supposed to be. A splash of scotch had remedied the situation slightly - the burn had certainly increased. He wondered what would happen if he added some pepper into it and... _No. You are not thinking of making experiments, John Watson. You are not doing the sort of thing he would do._

"Dear, I'm about to run out to the shop around the corner, do you need anything?" Mrs. Hudson came fluttering in, straightening out the mess on the way. John looked up at her warily and shook his head, whispering an almost inaudible 'no': he had everything he needed right here. "Not starting so early, dear, are you? It's barely midday," she tittered, casting him a disapproving glance while the corners of her mouth twitched downwards sadly. _At least he was talking. Sometimes. _"There isn't any milk, John, I might as well get some on the way. Some biscuits, maybe?"

John shrugged silently, giving Mrs. Hudson an apologetic look. He was in one of his moods, or rather it was his body that refused to engage the muscles required for speech. That had happened on some occasions: once in Afghanistan after having been nearly killed in a severe bombing of a homeless shelter where the soldiers had been hiding out and strategizing - nobody had survived but John and his friend Michael, whose arm was probably still buried underneath the rubble that had been their station; and several times - three? five? eight? - after _his _death. Together with the tremors and the limp, the inability to speak was slowly moulding John Watson into a semi-person: something indescribably desperate and completely helpless.

The telly hummed monotonously behind him as John, heaving a sigh, took his laptop from under the seat, the action requiring monumental effort for some reason. While the plastic hummed to life underneath his fingertips, he inspected a small dent on the left corner, almost as if some of the material had been chipped off. _Oh, _John thought to himself sadly, _that was why Sherlock was a bit jumpy around me that time... Eight months ago, was it? _He was getting bad at telling how much time had passed yet his life was now clearly divided into before and after his heart had been irreversibly damaged.

_It's like you're screaming and no one can hear. _

_You almost feel ashamed that someone could be that important. _

_That without them, you feel like nothing. _

_I went to see Sherlock again yesterday. But you knew that already, didn't you, dear reader? He still looks good, I think. Fresh. The marble is impeccable - someone has been cleaning it regularly. Or maybe the hands of those who come to support him are polishing it clean. _

_I nearly told him yesterday. I didn't dare, though. It didn't feel right for some reason. Maybe part of me is still hoping he would come back to have a proper conversation with me. _

_No one will ever understand how much it hurts. _

_You feel hopeless; like nothing can save you. _

_Mrs. Hudson is moving on, I suppose she deserves is more than anybody else. Twice divorced, once widowed. She has been spending an unhealthy amount of time in the baker's shop. She started smiling again. Bringing home milk and loaves of fresh hot bread._

_Sherlock never got any bread. God, he never bought anything unless it was for one of his experiments. He blew up several microwaves. Broke dozens of silverware sets by jamming them in between bolts. Ripped out several pages from invaluable books from the British Library. Stole my socks. Forgot when it was his time to make tea. Drove me up the wall with his violin at three in the morning. _

_And when it's over, and it's gone, _

_you almost wish you could have all that bad stuff back... _

_so that you could have the good. _

Drafting the post into a separate folder entitled 'Sentiment', the one never to be uploaded, John closed the lid and pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. It was still early and he was already exhausted. Bored. Tranquil. Useless. Something he never had been with Sherlock.

Maybe they would let him back in the army. Go to war. Adrenaline. Maybe get killed for Queen and country. Or maybe... Maybe he could... Well, it was insane and extremely dangerous... _I said 'danger' and here you are... _

_Bang._

Springing up from his seat, John was suddenly bouncing on the balls of his feet, excitement sparkling in his bones for the first time in months - almost the same excitement that coursed through him every time he risked his life running off after his best friend on another insane adventure. How had it not occurred to him before? Struggling to get a fresh shirt on and rushing around the flat in search of a matching pair of socks ('Oh, to _hell_ with it!'), he scanned his living space for his telephone - or any telephone, for that matter - as he had crashed his own against the wall several weeks before. Failing the attempt, he ran to his room, ignoring the fact that the limp was, once again, receding, and nearly ripped the drawer out from his bed-side table and fumbled with the gun he'd taken out, loading it while trying to zip up his jeans.

The door of 221B Baker Street flew open with a deafening noise, causing Mrs. Hudson to squeak in indignation in his wake and he did the only thing he could do at the moment - run down the street, around the corner to the nearest supermarket. Finally, he spotted what he was desperate to find.

"Mycroft!" He shouted into the security camera at the corner of the building. "Mycroft!"

J O H N L O C K

The cup made a resounding clink against the saucer as an elegant hand lowered both onto the small side-table. John's eyebrow ticked nervously while Mycroft sat in front of him, regarding him calmly, the slight twitch in his upper lip the only indication of what was going on inside that brilliant head.

John's way of summoning Sherlock's brother was indeed effective - within minutes of his display in front of the security camera, a shiny black car had pulled up right next to him and an inviting call from Anthea sounded from the leather salon. With a triumphant grimace - smiles had become a chore as of lately - John had lowered himself into the car, now completely ignoring the charming PA who, as per usual, had been clicking away on her BlackBerry - another latest model, John had noted absent-mindedly. He had learnt to stop asking questions and trying to bring up polite conversation throughout his experience with Mycroft and his subordinates.

"You do realize this is completely insane, Doctor." Mycroft licked his lips with an air of superiority. "A potentially lethal mission with only two possible outcomes."

"Mycroft, I think we both know there is only _one _outcome for this one," John replied evenly, sparing the British Government a glance. "One would think you would be happier. After all, a foot-soldier to bring you some sort of mental piece after what you have done-,"

"I realize what I have done, Doctor Watson. I also realize there is no redemption for me. What is done cannot be reversed, is that not what they say?"

"Haven't taken you as a man who listens to what people say."

"What do you require of me, John? There is scarcely anything I can help you with."

"Oh, please. Mycroft, your office has more ammunition that the whole of the Pentagon. I am asking you for a supply of bullets - an endless one, I believe - and, as much as it pains me to ask you for it, some monetary aid for my mission." John glared as Mycroft pulled a face, looking away through the window. Ungrateful. Although Sherlock had never shown his appreciation for favors, Mycroft was establishing a whole new level of swinishness. "Look, I know you feel guilty. You might be the brightest person in the country - or maybe the world - and that title has been inherited from your younger brother, but you cannot hide what has been plaguing you for months. Not from me. I know how it feels."

"What do you have to be guilty for?" Whispered Mycroft sadly.

"My blog was the trigger to start all of this mess. It is my fault they got to him, just as much as yours. But I'm doing something to untangle what I've done. I suggest you do the same." John paused, watching the British Government out of the corner of his eye tentatively, somehow knowing he had already won this round, he just needed to go about collecting his winnings correctly. Leaning forwards in a carelessly intimidating way he had seen Sherlock do, he looked Mycroft right in the eyes - so different from his Sherlock's - and whispered: "Help me. If not for all our sakes, then in his memory. We are the only ones who know him to be an extraordinary human being - the world needs to know what it's lost because of prejudice. They need to know. They need to sleep soundly."

"What do you propose I do? Provide you with an army for justice? Give you enough explosive to blow up the whole crime syndicate? Need I remind you, Doctor, that I am a man of the government - illegality is hardly an issue when I am the one rewriting the laws, but there are _some _bounds-,"

"Give me a gun. And a bank account to buy my way through the world as I track down the criminals, one by one. I need to help Sherlock. Consider this a sentimental memento in his honor." John sighed deeply for show, and, in his most earnest voice, stated: "He once called me his best man. I am the only one for this job and we both know it. Even you don't understand his methods as well as I do and Moriarty is _just _like him. They are the same in so many ways, crime being one of them. Please."

Mycroft gave the other man a sour look, scrunching up his face aristocratically and making to steeple his hands underneath his nose just like... On second thought, he'd rather his hands dropped to the armrests. John didn't miss the gesture and softened his expression - whatever either Holmes brother had said, their relationship, despite being difficult, was also exceptionally easy - a brotherly affection and protectiveness surrounded with resignation. Of course, John knew guilt played a significant part in Mycroft's allowing him to come over and ask for help. Had he wanted to keep John at bay, he would have, being the British Government and all. With a feeble nod, Mycroft pursed his lips:

"Then you shall end it in his name. Anything else you would need?"

Shaking his head hesitantly, John tried to go through every single scenario that would follow this meeting.

"Just one thing. Teach me how to do the mind palace trick."

J O H N L O C K

Cursing under his breath, John slid underneath the iron panelling of the factory wall and out of view just as another bullet whizzed past somewhere to the right of his head. Sure, he'd had bad days but as of lately... they were... well, both good and bad, if he were to be honest - the excitement was back as much as it could have been without his best friend by his side and the high of shooting something coursed through his body along with the adrenaline of the chase. The downside of the whole thing was getting shot _at _regularly. Not shot. Just shot _at_.

"Вылазь, собака! Сколько можно прятаться?" A disembodied voice of a trained Ukrainian killer yelled after him as he drew another breath to steady himself and closed his eyes in concentration, seeking out Russian in the depths of his mind. Mycroft had rather kept his end of the deal, showing John the capabilities of the mind he never knew he possessed. Sure, he wasn't a genius, as his Sherlock had been but with some extensive work that had stalled the British Government for a fortnight, they had managed to construct 221B Baker Street with all of its nooks and crannies and cram all the useful stuff under the sofa, the armchair, the fridge... Somehow, Mycroft packed in several languages to go with all the trivia. _Come out, dog! How long can you hide? _

Checking his gun once more, John peeked out from behind the metal only to be chased back behind it with another onslaught of standard army-issue AK-47 bullets. _These chaps don't waste money. _Struggling to his feet, John took another chance and shot almost unseeingly into the direction the voice had come from. _Thump. _

_One down. Fifty-three to go. _

**End Notes: **Sorry for the shortness.

**Question:** **If you had the chance to frolic and fornicate with one of them, which would you pick - Sherlock or Moriarty?**

Please review and the song used in the blog post and the title is 'We Found Love' by Rihanna. I've been quite obsessed with it as of recently and my class and I made a video for Valentine's Day to it, so if you're interested, have a peek: http: (/) youtu (.) be/(LFjQ_vdWc-o)


	3. Chapter 3 Between Sand and Stone

**Author's Notes: **My dearest readers, thank you so very much for the support you've all lent me and for reading the story as it goes along. I think I'm doing quite famously, never have I ever felt such desire to keep on writing. Maybe it's the will of the writer to get the story to a turning point, maybe it's Andrew Scott's dark smoldering eyes... Whatever the case, here is chapter three.

_Question answer: _I honestly don't know who I'd rather have my wicked way with. Benedict Cumberbatches eyes and voice and oh _God, _those _hands _all keep me awake at night and intelligence is sexy... But something about Moriarty inexplicably draws me in. Maybe it's the promise of power or the maniacal genius...

**Stop This Chapter III - Between Sand and Stone**

* * *

><p>"He came over last week, Sherlock. Told me he was going for a holiday. Not to look for him. Said he had to get as far away from 221B Baker Street as possible. I asked him why, he only sighed and said goodbye. Said he would leave the key under the flowerpot at Charlie's Sandwich Palace. Said to take care of Mrs. Hudson. Said he had left some money on the table, so that I could buy fresh flowers every week and bring them to the cemetery. He is not planning on coming back, Sherlock. You did this," Molly sobbed into the receiver, a hand half-covering her mouth. Before her eyes stood the image of a resolute John Watson, the army doctor, the loyal friend, the lost hero, whom she had only seen once after Sherlock's untimely departure - at his funeral. The man had been crushed by this friend's death, there was no other way of saying it - it was as if a huge burden had been laden onto his shoulders. And the worst part was that he had seemed all right with carrying it. It was his duty, just like army service. When she'd received the call from him not even a week ago, informing her of his going off to God knows where, his voice had sounded different. Calm. Gone was the slight tremble it had acquired after Sherlock's <em>death, <em>gone was the unsure sigh at the end of each thought. Something had changed within the man. Something only one Sherlock Holmes would be able to discover and rectify.

"You have to do something about it. Call Mycroft, ask him where John has gone. Sherlock, he is... he sounded so different, so... resigned. I think he is going to do something really, really _stupid _and we both know you are the only person in the world who would be able to persuade him not to... I can't even say it. Please, just... do something. I may have not known John for as long as I have known you but let me tell you this - there is no other person in the world who would do all the things John's done for you. I think it's time that you did something for him. Call Mycroft. Or, God help me, I will." Molly sighed, snapping her phone closed. Silly, she thought to herself, _silly to think he would actually pick up. _The unwelcoming mechanical twang of the voice mail lady had been met with silence before she had been able to gather her thoughts and convey to her friend what she needed to.

She still couldn't believe she had fallen for his subtle compliments, his little whispers of _you matter _and his insignificant glances. She had helped Sherlock Holmes save a man's life - his own, for that matter. What she hadn't considered when accepting his plea was that she would be digging a grave for another man - a good man, a _wonderful _man - so now, she stood there, in the middle of her mortuary, single and alone as before, feeling as though she had carved the name _John Hamish Watson _into white military marble.

* * *

><p>JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK<p>

"_Un euro treinta. Gracias,_" the smiling girl squealed to him as he handed over the money, taking his purchases wordlessly and striding out into the street. Autumn was mild in Barcelona, yet for sentimental purposes he still insisted on wearing his coat. It was maybe the only thing that felt like home in the crowded, noisy city. Sparing no glance at the vast _Sagrada Familia_, he continued down one of the smallish roads, only turning his head slightly to the left when another gasp echoed from behind him - yet one more victim to the warmth and ridiculously large amounts of people in line, waiting to get into the cathedral. Had he been _ordinary, _he would have rolled his eyes in amusement - honestly, didn't every tourist guide book clearly state there was _nothing _to see inside? The wondrous creation of Gaudí's genius was only as beautiful as its exterior and yet people poured inside to take a peek at the ongoing construction. He supposed he was rather like that, digging into the unknown. Always. Always.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud and he murmured a quick _Buenos días _to señora Nuñez, he Bed and Breakfast innkeeper. She was short and plump, very unlike Mrs. Hudson, who had always been a bit on the skinny side, but her tea and biscuits were almost just as good. Of course, British tea was better, but then again, that wasn't? His heart gave a small tug in his chest as he allowed himself a brief remembrance of the quiet afternoons spent in 221B Baker Street with John amusing himself with crossword puzzles and looking proud every time he'd solved one even though Sherlock would help him with half of the words. _No, _he shook himself, _that part of your life is over. For now. _

It had been weeks since he'd left the Queen's domicile and embarked on his journey first to France, then to Germany, then to Italy, and finally to Spain, where he was now, _had been _for eight days. His target lived right across the road, in a completely inconspicuous block of flats just a minute's walk from the city's most famous landmark. _Hiding in plain sight. How boring. _Tugging his shoes off, he settled into the leather armchair, the only piece of furniture he had requested in his room. That and a small side-table for the occasional cup of tea was all the luxury he needed. Sleep had become even more of a routine than it had used to be in the last few months, without the reassuring knowledge that John would be there to wake him up should a nightmare invade his _pontine tegmentum_.

His phone beeped once, jolting him from his musings. _New voice message received. Listen now? Yes. _Steeping his hands in front of his face, he listened to the phone's loudspeaker distort Molly's distraught voice.

_"Call Mycroft. Or God help me, I will." _

For the first time in months, Sherlock Holmes allowed himself to weep.

* * *

><p>JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK<p>

"Яшчэ адну," said John to the barkeep, slamming the shot-glass onto the countertop with a definitive _clink. One more. _It had been a rough day, rougher, in fact, than what had been mere weeks before - the Ukrainian assassin had only been the beginning. After him came a Russian crack-shot, thankfully not as good as John was, then came the Turkish crime syndicate... And now this. A Belorussian sect who had been very keep on helping Moriarty out with his ploys, in return for financial backing. Thinking back to the horrendously tight security around a four-level mansion just a few minutes outside of the city of Gomel, with uniformed army man patrolling ever two meters of the several-meter high electric fence, John concluded it had been _really good financial backing _as well. Snorting to himself, he downed another gulp of whatever that burning concoction was, and, pulling out several banknotes whose value he did not understand, stood to his feat.

Walking out of the bar, he sucked in another fresh breath. Autumn in Belorussia was surprisingly warm this year and he considered shrugging off his light jacket for a moment before deciding against it. It would not do any good to fall ill. According to one consulting detective, sinus blockage inebriated some neural passages to the brain. Translation: with a stuffed nose, you're no good. Smiling to himself, he stopped short when his phone rang, startling the cool calm air around him. _Who would...?_

"Hello?"

"I got the intel you needed, John. Bloody 'ard, too, 'ave you seen the size of those blokes?"

"Dorian, good morning. Is it morning still in London?'

"Don' be smoothin' me up, John Watson. I nearly got shot 'cause of wha' you told me to do!" Dorian, one of the former homeless network, thundered into the receiver. John had needed someone back in London to keep an eye out for things and to run occasional errands and he had not dared ask anyone he knew closely, considering all the risks involved. He had ransacked 221B for Sherlock's notes about the homeless and had come up with an address, only to find a run-down alcoholic in an underground tunnel. After a little bit of haggling, Dorian MacMaughen was his new eyes and ears in the city of London, in exchange for a nice little studio flat and a stable income supplied from the pocket of Mycroft Holmes. _All the right friends in all the right places. _

"Dorian, you know I don't have much time for conversation and that phone you're using is not exactly payed for by _yourself_, so please, skip the prologue. I will see to it that you are compensated accordingly. Just don't think to wheedle a fortune out of my sponsor, he is a man with a very short temper and _very _good connections _in very _important government offices. Now, you said you had something to tell me," John breathed into the phone, already feeling the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. It was beautiful, this chase, almost as beautiful as those had had ventured on with Sherlock. The detective might not have been with him but all John was doing would be in his name and it felt so... _good. _

"Aye, mate, no need to shout. So your next man is Francisco Navarra, you gonna write it down?"

"No need to," John replied, already labeling a new closet drawer 'Navarra'. "Anything interesting I need to know?"

"Spanish drug lord, assassin, thief, whatever you 'ear about the crime world, he's done it. Lives in Barcelona with his wife _and _mistress. Bloke really knows 'ow to turn things 'round for 'himself," Dorian chuckled, earning an eye-roll from John. "Anyways, last time my friends 'ear, 'e was planning some sort of attack on the Caixa bank 'eadquarters and that's supposed to 'appen in a week or two."

"Any address?"

"Surprisingly, yes. 'e gone and got 'imself a flat right next to that big church of theirs, the Sengrade _Familia _or som'in',"

"The _Sagrada Familia_?"

"Yes, that's it. I will send you the details by text, kay? Can't pronounce 'em bloody Spanish street names."

"All right." John exhaled, looking up at the sky. He hadn't been in Spain for _ages_. "What about the _other _business I told you to take care of?"

"Oh yeah, 'e's fine. Got 'imself a new case, som'in' 'bout a robbery on Downin' street. That ought to keep 'im busy."

"What about the others?"

"The foul woman finally left that forensics guy, good riddance if ya ask me."

_Wonderful. _

"Thank you very much for this call, Dorian, nice to know there is someone out there who can help me."

"Ya know I don' care 'bout that, John. I'm in it for the money. And to find out who the bloody 'ell you woul' do so much for."

"Call me if you find anything, mate."

"Always, John."

Pressing the _end call _button, John brought the phone up to his mouth in contemplation. Spanish criminal mastermind. _Just like the movies_, he thought to himself with a grin. Well, Spain it was. After being on the road constantly for nearly a week, with nothing to do but eat and sleep in between wielding his army pistol, John was not worse for wear - there was plenty of energy left inside him. Suddenly, he had come to understand how Sherlock had been able to function for days on end without so much as a nap: it was the hunger for the chase that had him going. The very thought that soon you would be able to lay a hand on the solution to the problem (or onto the trigger) was better than any mattress and any pillow in the world. Still, sitting down might be a good idea, John thought, but who was to say he couldn't rest while working? _Spain it is. _

**NEED 1 TCKT BCN AIRPORT 2NITE & AP SECURITY CLEARANCE, TOO MUCH AMMO.**

**-JW**

**_Message Sent._**

With a sigh, he shrugged up his backpack, full of ammunition and junk food, and made his way to the nearest bus stop. Mycroft had been amenable to paying for John's way through the world but it didn't mean it had to be in luxury.

* * *

><p>JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK<p>

"Shite," Sherlock cursed under his breath, tugging another clip from his coat pocket and slamming it frustratedly into the pistol. A few shots rang out sporadically around the room. _Three people and they have no idea where I am. Wonderful. _Taking another calming breath, Sherlock jumped out from his hiding place, not pausing but instead firing off several consecutive shots. Nothing. Well, it had been pretty improbably he would be able to hit anybody without so much as aiming but ordinary people were so _stupid. _Of course, _one _wasn't, but... Sherlock shook himself to settle back into reality, the reality in which murderers were chasing after him for coming after _them_.

Another shot rung out in the vast space and Sherlock slid soundlessly over to another block of shelves, hiding himself from view behind three meters of canned tuna. He had ventured into a chip 'n pin supermarket for the first time in his life and that was the experience he would get out of it - blood and gunshots. _There isn't any blood yet, _he reminded himself grimly, his hand sliding into his pocket to ready yet another clip. _Oh, but there will be. And non spilt on my part. _Clenching the now extracted clip between his teeth, he finally sneaked out from where he had been hiding, gun at the ready.

"Vamos!" He said into the emptiness sternly, not quite shouting. For some reason, he just wanted this over with so that he could track down another criminal in a country that wasn't so _hot_. The weather was clearly not suited to his tastes, his milky skin already having reddened over the past few days rather unattractively. It made him wish his skin was more like _John's_, who had survived the Afghan sun just fine. Oh, God Almighty, not _John _again. Snapping back to where he was, Sherlock took another precarious step towards his goal, the familiar weight of the gun settling into the palm of his hand comfortable. "No tengo tiempo para estos juegos! Llévadme a vuestro jefe! Nadie tiene que morir hoy!" _I don't have time for these games! Take me to your boss! Nobody needs to die today. _Cliché words rolled off his tongue easily, even though he was quite aware they were all disgusting lies. At least three people would be dead today. It was his mission not to become one of them.

"Ha! El pequeño británico quiere jugar de guerra!" A laughing voice echoed from behind a cornflake shelf, resounding unpleasantly throughout the hall. Sherlock gripped the gun tighter, turning slowly towards where the voice had been. _The little Brit wants to play war. _"Vamonos, si quieres morir aquí, sin amigos, sin tu dignitad, sin tu _papi_, maldito maricón!"

Sherlock stiffened at the last word, sending an unprecedented shot into the direction of the taunting voice. _Let's go, if you want to die herer, without friends, without dignity, without your papi, damned faggot! _It had been ages since anybody had called him that. And it still hurt.

What hurt more, though, was the bulled that had grazed his slack forearm while fumed over the bandit's words. Cursing silently, Sherlock looked down to see a meager amount of blood, not enough to cause any irreversible damage to his body. _Transport, _he reminded himself, and walked forward cautiously, sending a few bullets into what he hoped would be a human being.

"Ah!" _Bingo. _Hurried footsteps echoed from behind him and Sherlock turned on his heal to shoot another Spaniard right in the heart. The man staggered back with the force of the shot and fell down, his black eyes wide with surprise.

_Two down, one to go. _

Suddenly, a shot he hadn't fired resounded through the vacated supermarket, making Sherlock look up from his victim in surprise. _What in God's name...? _Running down the vegetable isle, making a sharp turn to the left behind the dairy and nearly slamming into the chip 'n pin machine, Sherlock stared at the body lying right between the security frames. _Nicola Pazos. _Assassin number three.

Somebody had gotten him before Sherlock.

**End Notes: **Chapter title from Charlene Soraia's "Wherever You Will Go".

**Question: **Who would play Mummy?


	4. Between Sand and Stone Part 2

**Author's Notes: **This is the second part of the last chapter - I really didn't want to end it without a resolution but the next chapter will deal with a different setting, thus I am publishing this slightly _tiny _chapter to end the last one. More up soon!

**Please review.**

* * *

><p>John cursed under his breath as he struggled to get the air into his lungs, bent over, hands placed on his aching knees, in a secluded alleyway. He was able to hear the merry lull of the tourists lining up to see the Sagrada Familia a couple of streets down. <em>What in God's name just happened? <em>

Though slightly enhanced by Mycroft's tutelage, his mind was desperately failing to compute. He had walked into the supermarket to buy juice, for Christ's sake and instead ended up shooting a criminal. _Nicola Pazos. _John knew the name as he had memorized the striking features of the unfriendly Catalan just mere hours before their encounter. He had been going over the information Dorian had been able to get him, flipping over photograph after photograph of Navarra's associates. And Pazos was third on the list.

_Just my luck, _he thought to himself, irritated. Somebody had taken care of the rest - he hadn't stayed around to see who it had been as the risk of getting caught by any party was... It seemed as though he wasn't on either side now - good or evil. He killed people. People that hurt his friend. His best and only friend. He didn't do it for justice, either. He did it for Sherlock Holmes.

_Well, I guess there's one thing left to do, _he mused and, finally tucking the gun into the holster that was strapped to his chest, took off, running towards the street where the most notorious Spanish criminal lived.

**STOP THIS**

Sherlock stooped down to examine the deceased criminal. The bullet hole was quite small, placed perfectly right between the man's bushy eyebrows. Professional killer then, he thought. The shot had been intuitive, Pazos' killer had definitely been startled by the gun-waving madman. What were the chances of a trained assassin walking into a supermarket just in time to accidentally shoot a wanted criminal? It made no sense whatsoever.

The consulting detective shook himself out of his thoughts, knowing he had an hour at the most to get to Navarra before he escaped having heard about the deaths of his thee best men. It wouldn't be long before word would spread and Moriarty's whole network would go underground. Nobody had to live - a good cleanup job.

Without casting the body a second glance, he walked out of the supermarket, flipping the '_cerrado_' sign over to face any incoming shopper. He then took off, turning to the left to get to Navarra's street when -,

A bloodcurdling scream echoed though the alleyway, making his heart jolt. Speeding up, he ran at the sound, stopping short when he saw the increasing crowd which stood around, gawking at something.

Sherlock looked up: the window of the building's third floor was broken, the shards of glass that stuck out were covered in blood. Arterial. Too much to be just scratches from having been pushed through the pane: he had clearly been in a fistfight. And a gunfight as well.

Sherlock elbowed his way through the onlookers, breath hitching and when he finally stopped short...

There he was. Francisco Navarra. Face-down, a great hole in the back of his neck oozing scarlet blood onto the pavement. Obviously dead. His shoulder bled profusely as well, - clearly he had been shot more than once before being thrown out of the window like a rag doll. Vicious murder. But neat. Very, very neat. No witnesses. Nobody to confirm the identity of the killer. Nothing to go on except for the fact that the battle had been rigorous but very uneven. Navarra had been at a complete disadvantage: caught by surprise.

They turned the man over - it was indeed him, _El Rey del Crimen Español _**_- _**The King of Spanish Crime. With a lingering look at the body which had turned into a spectacle for the gawping crowd, Sherlock straightened his back and pulled up the collar of his coat, uncaring if he looked completely ridiculous when everyone else wore light jackets. Plucking his phone out of his pocket, he strode away, knowing he would have to pack and get going soon, before the rest of Moriarty's crime syndicate started wondering about the killings.

He still had a lot of business to do and time was running short. Now, though, it looked like had an assistant.


End file.
